Tuesday, September 20, 2011

This silt says

This silt says, there was a river here, once,
however far it has receded.
I walk the path and
today’s footprints dust over yesterday’s.
Last winter I carried anxiety in a little bag with me.
In June I considered wedding vows.
Today the sky is sapphire and my head is full of words,
everything and too much a poem.
At 4 pm each day the wind blows back down the canyon,
blows back whatever has been brought,
pushes back the skin of the water that pulses underneath.
One might imagine a droplet of water stands still for a moment –
then, driven by a force far greater than it,
rushes forward.

Monday, September 19, 2011

Oh you, who makes all this possible…

My husband takes my breakfast order via text
as I’m coming home from an early morning run,
42 degrees,
for which earlier he’d acted as my arm-oire,
 standing in the closet with bra top,
fleecy tights,
wool shirt
arrayed on his limbs while I tried to decide
what the season’s first cool run required. 

At home, he slips my coffee onto the bathroom counter
while I’m showering, ensuring I stay as
 hot in the steam as the coffee does in the cup.

I hope, absurdly, to be at least 1/2 as good at loving as he is. 
(What would that look like:
one slipper delivered from under the bed?
a dinner partially cooked and missing all seasoning? 
a ride halfway to work?) 

Maybe this:
on a day that he returns home to
a French press clogged with grounds,
a dog dissatisfied and unwalked,
no inspiration spared for dinner,
foolish, hopeful, ever-fallible, present him with a love poem.